Pointless
by louiseb
Summary: A short introspective piece from Kirk's POV inspired by my first watching of "The Empath" a few weeks ago. This episode wasn't shown in the UK until 1994 because the BBC were concerned about 'scenes of torture'. An angst fest for Kirk fans.


_This is a short introspective piece from Kirk's POV inspired by my first watching of "The Empath" a few weeks ago. This episode wasn't shown in the UK until 1994 because the BBC were concerned about 'scenes of torture'. To me it feels like a bizarre episode, almost disconnected from the rest of the series. And some of the scripting, particularly in the final scene, seems clunky to say the least. However, it certainly has its merits and certain images have stuck with me. This is my attempt to join the dots._

-oOo-

**Pointless**

So how did it start? Can he follow the clicking dominoes back in time? Trace events back to one mission? To a single day... to an hour? Where and when was the tipping point?

Cygnus IV.

He remembers feeling tired. So tired. Bone numbing, life sapping, mind paralysingly tired. It was new, that sensation. He couldn't explain it.

He'd been through worse. Landing parties where he'd gone days without sleep, without food. It wasn't the first time he'd been tortured, certainly not the first time he'd faced death.

In the past he'd found the threat had given him an edge. Controlled anger was part of his armoury. Anger kick started the intellect. Adrenaline sparked the quick thinking analysis and the physical strength he took for granted. He'd begun to rely on a spot of personal adversity. But that was before.

That night he hadn't been able to function.

Bones had seen it. After treatment he'd tried to make him stay overnight in sickbay. But Kirk was having none of it.

"The decompression chamber has worked. No more nitrogen bubbles. See..." He can stretch without pain. The fire in his joints has gone. It should be bliss. He doesn't feel blissful.

He feels... stretched, thin, close to an edge he can't define. He's annoyed by the tricorder's whine - waves it away. "Really, Bones, all I need now is a good night's sleep."

Not that he was going to get one. He'd rarely slept through the night in recent months. Another medical fact his ship's doctor isn't going to learn from him.

"Jim, it's not just about the decompression. You were hours in those blasted Vian contraptions. The psychological effects can..."

"And what about the psychological effects of facing certain death, Bones? You're the one who almost didn't make it."

He can still see him - McCoy broken and suffering. A shadow in a pool of shadows. Can still see Spock's face looking up from the tricorder, a mirror of his own despair.

He takes a deep breath, files the images away to join the others. More pictures to add to the relentless slideshow that plays every night on the ceiling above his bed. He needs space to think and he won't get that if McCoy keeps him in sickbay.

"I want a full medical report on my CMO and you're not to report back for duty until it's done."

"Jim, I'm perfectly fine. Never better. Gem did it, she healed me..."

He rarely uses his command tone with his friend. But right now he'll do what's necessary.

"That's an order, Doctor."

The distraction had worked. He'd made sure Chapel had heard every word and, true to form, she had a grumbling McCoy on a biobed before either of them noticed their captain making a quiet exit.

Back in his quarters he hits the lock and slumps, back against the door, eyes closed. Finds himself taking deep, shaky breaths. Shivering. He's chilled - inside and out. It's several minutes before he can gather enough energy to cross to the bed. Throws himself down and presses his palms into his eyes until he sees stars. Stars usually help.

Not this time.

What was it that was different? Why was this episode, this landing party, so much worse than the others?

The answer rises without analysis. A word that looms large and dull in his mind. It blocks the light this word, forms a barrier to any sense of satisfaction that once again they'd beaten the odds. They'd survived. The word is 'pointless'.

_"If my death is to have any meaning at least tell me what I'm dying for."_

His plea echoes back to him as if from a void. And it had felt like a void, hanging there in the dark. He'd never felt so helpless, so...out of control. Rage with no focus. Emotions scrabbling across a smooth surface, unable to gain purchase.

He'd take Klingon sadism over the Vians' polite emotionless experimentation any day of the week.

Like McCoy, Gem had healed him. Pulled him back from excruciating pain.

But neither the empath nor the decompression chamber had been able to heal the internal injury. The sudden emptiness, the doubt. It robbed his world of colour - morphed his vision into monochrome flatness.

Of course, doubt is always there. Only he knows how much uncertainty lurks behind those crucial command decisions, buried well away from his crew's sight.

But he'd never doubted his place, his role. Life as a starship captain had meaning, it had purpose - until now.

The marrow deep fatigue brought no sleep. Just more of those energy-draining words. Useless. Pointless. Humiliated.

Later, much later, he'd forced himself from his bed, feet leaden, head in fog. Dragged himself to sickbay to check on McCoy - who appeared to have suffered few lasting side effects. His friend seemed positively perky following his near-death experience.

Usually he'd have found Bones in an optimistic mood amusing. But not that day. He'd had to grit his teeth. Then turn the teeth gritting into a smile. And, for once, his friend was too buoyed up by his newfound lust for life to notice the smile's insincerity.

Even back on the bridge, back home, the exhaustion persisted, mixed with something unfamiliar. A disinterest, a lethargy. He hadn't meant to voice it out loud.

"Strange."

Spock had picked up on it immediately, noticed the off note in his voice. Damned Vulcan perception.

"What is it that's puzzling you, captain?"

He'd had to think fast. He couldn't let his crew get even a hint that their captain wasn't fully engaged, completely in command.

"I'm not puzzled, Mister Spock..." That 'Mister' a warning not to enquire too closely, not to make this about friendship.

Not puzzled. But Spock _is_, concern in his eyes, eyebrow raised. So if he's not puzzled what is he then? He looks around the bridge, searching for inspiration. Brings his eyes back to the viewscreen. The stars are cold.

He reaches for a credible emotion, something neutral. "I am...in awe."

He can see Spock react - it is an odd word to use. But McCoy doesn't seem to notice - in fact he comes to his rescue.

"I'm with you, Captain, she awed me."

He'd been able to pretend then. Turn the conversation to the odds of meeting Gem in limitless space. Knew Spock wouldn't be able to resist the mathematical reference and then Scotty had chipped in and they'd had some bizarre conversation about pearls and merchants and Gem, which proved enough to throw even his first officer off the scent.

As they set off on their new course he couldn't wait to get off the bridge.

Perhaps that was when it changed. That moment when he'd raced away from the centre seat of his starship. From a distance he can see the symbolism.

Was that the first time he'd contemplated the impossible, contemplated leaving?

He'd done nothing about it then. Well, almost nothing.

He had commed Nogura, chatted about the old days, talked about mutual Academy colleagues and the work they were doing. But he hadn't mentioned the idea of moving on. Certainly hadn't expressed any interest in a desk job. But his friend is perceptive. Now he wonders if that's when the wheels started turning back at Starfleet...

A few days later it seemed better. There was the next mission, and the one after that. He found himself meeting each new foe with a determination bordering on recklessness. Hell, when that two-toned alien from Cheron took away his control he'd almost blown up his own ship. Couldn't face the prospect of feeling helpless, not again.

Yes, looking back, he can see something changed on Cygnus IV. That's when his life lurched off course, a course that took him straight into the 'neutral zone' of Starfleet bureaucracy.

And now he can appreciate the irony.

Because right at this moment he'd take a few hours hanging helpless in Vian manacles over a lifetime of pointless paper pushing behind his Admiral's desk.

FIN

_Would be interested to know what you think so please review or drop me a line. Kirk fans may also enjoy my other stories, **Empty** (M), **Empty complete** (T version of same story) and **On the Road** (T)._


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